Wild Thyme
by Barrett's Privateer
Summary: A tale of helicopters, their unique nature and their relationships among themselves and other vehicles in the Carsverse, and the ways in which contact with humans influence their lives. Fair warning: The "Born or Built?" hornet's nest gets a few good pokes in this one. But Blade's a big boy, he can handle it.
1. Chapter 1

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what? _**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

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><p><em>We are each described as "a set of parts flying in loose formation, looking for a place to crash."<em>

_We are, collectively and individually, open provocations to the laws of physics, and the elements, and once in a while, they get their own back on us, in ways that are (more often than not) spectacular and fatal._

_We cannot afford the luxuries of denial, or lack of knowledge._

_We aren't valued for our talents in music, but our blades still sing "the song of our people."_

_We are... helicopters_

The cruise ship reported engine trouble at 1830 hours, started taking on water two hours after that, and by morning had developed a 15-degree list to port while adrift in 30-foot seas off the California coast. Coast guard vessels and helicopters were dispatched, but the helos would get there first, surveying the scene and reporting back on the general conditions and the state of the ship and passengers. Then, once the rescue vessels arrived, they would do the hard work of evacuating passengers and all but the most essential crew members to lighten the ship's load and start getting her into a condition safe enough to be taken in tow back to the mainland.

There were two helicopters in the thick of the rescue efforts in the blustery grey gloom of that morning - each an HH-65 Dolphin, each female, and working hard to transfer passengers - mostly cars and the odd pitty - to the cutters and several civilian vessels who were also rendering assistance. At a distance, the two 'copter women looked alike, of the same model and identical in their service livery, but prolonged observation would reveal subtle differences.

One had a delicate, dish-faced profile with a long muzzle, the other was slightly roman-nosed with sharper features. One had eyes the color of seafoam that darkened to teal at the edge of the iris, the other had eyes the shade of copper, hinting at a "champagne" pigment dilution gene modifying her natural color, hidden by the paint. The HH-65 with the seafoam eyes looked to be lighter and thinner than her workmate by some six hundred pounds, to a point that made some suspect she was anorexic, or at least borderlining that way. How could one so skinny do a full day's work? More than one vehicle in her sling looked up anxiously as she throttled up and prepared to lift. _How can she support my weight?_ Yet, she shouldered the load, and many more to come, until another team of helos came to relieve them.

Over the radio, they were directed to land on the heliport of the largest cutter, Capt. Neil Charters by name. Capt. Charters was in command of the whole operation, knew both of the young women, liked their work ethic and was sure that they would go far in the ranks if they played their cards right. He wasn't about to send them back to their posting at the Los Angeles station without getting some rest and a meal first. The two helos now stood on his flight deck, heads down and slightly shaky, while pitty NCO's looked them over, checked their frames and engines, rubbed them down with shammy pads and brought warm, oil-rich linseed mash for them to eat. Applecane pulp and cinnamon had been added to this pottage, to pick up appetites that might otherwise be depressed by sheer exhaustion. The pitties brought extras, supplements and some meds to the thinner one, and with some persuasion, managed to get them down her throat before she finally settled down on a mat to join her teamate in sleep.

This rescue operation had been but the latest in what had turned out to be a very hard season for the "Coasties" of California. Scarcely three days before, they had been dispatched on a search for a missing boat - that, unfortunately, hadn't ended well for the one in question. Before that, they had to lift a suddenly-ill camper off of a remote island and up until then had responded to many more calls, in between ongoing training exercises and sundry errand runs. The coming month promised more of the same, but the two helo women were now mercifully dead to the world under their fitted waterproof blankets as the cutter finally turned and headed for home, once the cruise ship could be left to the tugs.

As Capt. Charters neared shore, the scent blowing off the coast spoke of sage, pines and flowers. The two helos on his flight deck stirred, and then their eyes opened. The copper-eyed one, Lt-Cmdr. Bree LeVasseur, raised her head off the mat and sniffed. That was about as much as she felt she could stir; every other part of her was stiff and sore. She heard a groan from beside her, and looked over to see the seafoam-green eyes of Lt. Juno Desmarais, who had been in the same cadet division when they had been at the Academy, but almost always one rank behind since graduation. "Juno? Are you feeling as nearly-dead as I am?"

"I'm feeling almost "undead", but without the cool factor of looking like a zombie." Juno snarked back.

"Too bad we couldn't do that last Halloween." Bree shifted on her mat - and winced. "You were still posted in Chicago, I was taking RMT's out to a small yacht who thought small craft warnings are for sissies. Dan was some ticked off, he spent half the night flying to some trawler only to find that their EPIRB had been triggered accidentally and they had no idea until Dan was hovering overhead and looking really, really annoyed."

Juno snorted at the mention of the HH-60 Jayhawk who served at the Los Angeles air station with them. "I've seen his "annoyed" face, I really don't wanna see him angry for real." She finally hauled herself up, groaning, as one of the NCO's rolled up with tines full of fuel cans and a few other things. "Good morning, ladies." he nodded politely, "We should be in LA by 0700 and you can fly back from there." He set a prepared can before each. "Still a bit sore?"

"Yeah." Bree gritted her teeth as she rose and flexed. She caught the scent of liniment in the pitty's other supplies. The relief would be welcome, but it would be slightly embarrassing to touch down at the air station reeking of peppermint-laced camphor. "But we still have to be ready to do it all again tonight." She shrugged resignedly, and winced again before dropping her head to consume her fuel ration. While she and Juno were doing that, the CPO pulled off the blankets, poured some liniment onto shammy pads and began to work on them, flexing landing gear joints and working the stuff into their airframes. He did one last check of engines and rotors and then stood back. "Contact the flight deck officer when ready."

But, even before that, a message came Bree's way, directly from Capt. Charters by radio. "LeVasseur, your station commander wants to see you and Desmarais as soon as you land. Flight deck's ready to see you off."

"Roger." Bree answered with a sigh. What did the good Commander Brightwire want now? She turned to Juno. "Well, that FNG who's now in charge of us just put the kibosh on stopping at Rivera's on the way back. The double-thick shakes are gonna have to wait."

"Bulls***" muttered Juno.

"Yeah, I agree." Bree made a face, but added in more hushed tones, "But try not to show him the new words you learned from the humans at Ash Mountain. It'll just confuse him, and we already know THAT doesn't take much."

Juno's eyes darted about momentarily, checking that the crew were out of earshot before she spoke. "If we're still reeking when we see him, too bad."

Lt. - Cmdr Dan Crosby, having heard the HH-65 blades doppler in, sighed with a certain thinly-veiled wistfulness as he watched Juno waiting her turn above the heliport where Bree was touching down. Hitting on anyone within the same chain of command was, to put it mildly, strongly discouraged, but just in case they ever landed in separate commands... well, a man could dream, couldn't he? Might as well lay the groundwork now...

The air station wasn't known for its landscaping, but there were California roses growing wild just beyond the fence that marked the station's boundaries; the Jayhawk slipped around the barrier (another act very much frowned upon) and rubbed his cheeks against the shrub, augmenting the scent of healthy male late-twentysomething helicopter with a light floral scent. Among 'copter-kind, it was the male sex who instinctively adorned themselves with attractive smells, much to the distress of airport landscapers and any owners of aromatic plants, who had to guard their shrubbery from the inadvertantly destructive behavior of rotorcraft men seeking female favor.

Once on the ground, the HH-65 pair moved off to report to the station commander, whilst muttering a few things about desk jockeys, perfumed princes REMFs, pogues and their sundry conceits. The Jayhawk carefully positioned himself just so, not too close as the women rolled by, but not too far that the lovely Juno, the slender she of the dish face and eyes of light sea-green, couldn't catch the augmentations to his scent. They neared, and passed... and then Dan reeled as the Great Wave of Liniment stung his nose, and he despaired that Juno would be completely unable to appreciate the subtleties of his rose-enhanced self with her own olfactories too full of strong unguents.

Finally, he managed to spit out some words. "That bad a night, huh?"

"It was." Juno stifled a yawn as she kept pace with Bree. Had she looked back, she would have seen the Jayhawk slinking back to his hangar in a most depressed state.

"Dan's still sweet on you." Bree smirked as they passed into the station's administrative section.

"Now Bree, you already know I don't date boys." "Boys", by Juno's definition, were apparently defined as "males below the age of thirty-five." "Even if he wasn't in the chain of command."

"Sure you do," Bree teased. "Rich Brazilian fiftyish playBOYs."

"Hey, Angelo was a blast while he was here." Juno grinned. "It was worth it getting all Day-Kote'd up to hit the clubs with him. Sure that stuff flakes and itches after a few hours, but it was nice not to have half the joint giving me the stinkeye because they blame the Coast Guard for interfering with their "recreational pharmaceutical" shipments. I couldn't care less if they get stoned off their tires anyway."

Bree considered a response about the waste and folly of putting paint over paint, especially a temporary cosmetic coating notorious for itching and triggering allergies, but they were already at the double doors of the hangar-sized building that served as the station's conference room. No doubt Brightwire would keep them waiting, as he always did. _Officious little runt. Never spent a day at sea, just kissing sterns, tails and bumpers, in whatever order they present themselves. Wants to be an admiral when he grows up. Chrysler, that'll be the day._

True to form, the helos spent fifteen minutes cooling their treads in the conference hall before "His Nibs" deigned to show himself. Cmdr. Brightwire was one of the upper-class bureaucrat/technocrat stamp of the pitty race, looking at the women over his newly-acquired computerized specs as he entered the hall. "Lt-Commander LeVasseur, Lt. Desmarais, good morning." he intoned as he took his place on the opposite side of the low table. "I hope you rested well after last night. Captain Charters has relayed his commendations for you both. That will bode well for your permanent records."

"Thank you, Commander." Bree smiled blandly, presenting a facade that was like unto polished marble - pleasant to see, but opaque. That was one subtlety she had learned well from her mother.

Juno's response was accentuated by a slight cocking of the head, as if to obscure the corner of her mouth that couldn't quite shed its smirk. Her eyes, though lowered, flashed small specks of deviltry in the beams from the skylights. If Juno had been born in a family, rather than out of a seedcore in a factory matrix, she might have had attentive parents to impart more of the social niceties to her. If she was almost always one rank behind her old classmate, her rough edges came in for a good share of the blame.

Brightwire steepled his immaculate, nickel-plated tines. "Now, the reason I've called you both in today is that we in the Coast Guard are currently undertaking a greater outreach towards local and regional search-and-rescue services, not only in the U.S., but in the rest of the world," he peered over his glasses one more time. "And networking will be an essential aspect of that plan..." Juno cocked her head further and made an effort to straighten her mouth. _Oh Brightie, the 90's called. They want their buzzwords back! "_ "...as well as a practical demonstration and sharing of skills and capabilities. Admiral Seafort himself has requested a short list of candidates from which delegates will ultimately be selected for an international SAR conference to be held at Piston Peak National Park. Only our best will do for this task, and I am proud to say that I have recommended the two of you for inclusion on that list." He smiled with the satisfaction of an officer on the command track who'd just gotten some warm fuzzies from the higher-ups. "I know you'll have questions. Documents will be forwarded to you both at the conclusion of this meeting."

"Thank you, sir." Bree maintained her Wall of Pleasant Opacity, saying as little as would satisfy Brightwire that he was being listened to. It was by no means a sure thing, but she and Juno were already considering the implications of a inland trip, miles away from their regular post. Bree was no stranger to it, dividing her leave time between her family in Texas and a fiancee in Colorado. Before that, she'd spent a couple of years on arctic sea patrols. Juno herself had been posted on the Great Lakes until the last winter. L.A. was something of a "candy" posting, and considered one of the pipelines to bigger things. But by the same token, it was also closer to the admirals, with the ever-present possibility of attracting their complete and undivided attention for reasons that could be good or bad.

"Do you have any questions?" Brightwire asked, though it was only rote formality with him.  
>"I think you've given us all the information we need, commander." Bree, reading Juno, spoke up for both of them. Juno was prudent enough, but why tempt her flippant side to show itself? "In the event that we are chosen, you can be sure that conference will see nothing but the best of us." And reflect well on a certain commander, of course. She felt a yawn coming up, and stifled it carefully.<p>

"I'm sure that will be the case." Brightwire nodded. "You won't be on standby again until 1800 tonight, but I'll wrap this up anyway. Good day, ladies." Juno was on the fine line between looking her superior in the eye and keeping her lip from twitching too visibly. _Yeah, whatever, you've got honchos to schmooze and butts to kiss and names to drop. We understand. WE UNDERSTAND._ The two helos backed off decorously, back through the doors. After they were safely back in the operative section of the air station, Juno finally let loose with a derisive snort, "I wonder what that man does for fun after a full day of, you know, sucking up to brass and dusting off his I Love Me wall?"

"I think you just said it." Bree finally let out that yawn. "He must be a real joy at family reunions." Conceited bastard, her father would have called him. Guy LeVasseur, a veteran of the French Army and alpine rescue, had little tolerance for perfumed princes. Of course his mouth had played a large part in the Eurocopter agency's home office encouraging his move to America, and a semi-arranged marriage to the daughter of the head of the American branch of the Dauphin line. Perhaps they were all hoping that the resulting offspring would have their sire's physical prowess and drive and their dam's more mellow temperament. Just as well HE wasn't here right now.

"Well," Juno curled her lip, "I don't wanna think any more about old kiss-ass today. If we hurry, we can beat the lunch rush at Rivera's. I know there's a shake with my name on it."


	2. Chapter 2

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what? _**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

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><p>When the pitty set the blueberry shake before her, Juno happily pounced on it. Bree smiled decorously to the waitress as she received her frozen mocha. Right now, she just wanted anything with a bit of caffiene in it. She was also pondering who might be in on the selection process for this conference, along with their spouses and underlings and immediate family members that they knew of. NOT that Bree was really panting to go there, but it would be a bit of a change from the usual routine, if they could swing it. But at present, it was just an interesting socialprofessional networking problem to be hacked and worked through.

If her general theory held out, a good show of pleasantries to Rear Admiral Breakwater's wife, who was here while her spouse was on an Arctic tour, might prove fruitful, as the yacht woman was in good with Admiral Haynes, a high-ranking woman who did not have any direct input into selection, but one of the committee was in her chain of command. Bree's close and constant awareness of who was who and who was incoming or outgoing was of a much more subtle bent than was Brightwire's gladhanding, and, as far as she was concerned, it WAS relevant to doing her job.

After a while, Juno picked up her head. "Bree, you're pondering again. Better ease up on that before your shake turns into slush."

"You have a point. As always." Bree chuckled, then took a long sip from her mocha freeze. At last she folllowed the line of Juno's nose to see where her duty partner's attention was going. Juno flicked a blade for additional emphasis, though not too overtly. "That guy is gonna come over in a few." She indicated a Bell 222, perhaps a bit too loud in his color scheme, who was already stealing the odd glance in the womens' direction. "He's gonna try his "game" on us."

"Not another one of those "pickup artists", Bree took in her breath, almost hissing before she checked herself. "Those guys have no clue how they're really coming across." She inhaled once again and steeled herself when she saw the 222 start making his way over at what he considered a casual sauntering pace. _Don't strain yourself, Hon. _

"Hey," he said at last, smiling to both, though it was readily apparent that he was focused a little more on Juno. "I'm kinda new here. What would be the best thing to order?"

"Good question." Bree shrugged, running a bit of interference. "You might try the caramel latte shake. People around here rave about it."

"Oh yeah.." the Bell helo recollected himself, his eyes flitting between the two. Bree could already guess what cogs were turning in his head, separating the both of them into categories of "desired object" and "designated c***blocker". Not that Bree was unattractive, but against Juno's lithe form, delicate features and two-toned green eyes, she would appear the slightly coarser of the two.

"So what do you like?" He finally zeroed in on Juno, advancing as if about to answer that himself with "Me, I hope."

Juno paused a couple of beats. She toyed with the straw on her shake and then yawned. "Right now, I'd like to finish my drink. And then I'm going to catch twenty, because I could have another busy night. And you?"

The bright-yellow 222 backed up on his gear a bit, unsure. "Ah-uh... " In pulling back, he almost collided with the server, who was coming back to check on the HH-65 women. "Sorry." he muttered, blushing before he went into a rapid retreat.

Juno suppressed a snicker as she watched him leave. "That guy's "outergame" wasn't as slick as he thought it was."

Bree concurred. "That shade of yellow... it was eye-hurting. And it made his eyes look strange."

"He was way too young for me anyway." Juno sniffed. "So, you scheming yet?"

Bree blinked. "Me, scheming?"

"I'm onto your wicked ways, girl." Juno added with a nudge. "You're consulting that giant administrative flow chart inside your head, aren't you? Like, who's the right person to say exactly the right thing to at exactly the right time?"

"OK, I admit I was thinking about it." Bree took another sip. "Be all smiley to So-and-so's wife, she knows Whatsername who has in her chain of command one person who might be making the final decision, hope it percolates to that level, can't get too much more obvious about it."

"That's what I still find amazing about you, Bree." Juno finally let out a laugh, "You get a few names, and you get this big picture view, all neatly sorted out in your head, and you always know what to say. If I`d had that talent, it woulda saved me quite a few embarrassments over the years."

"It didn't come that easy, as you already well know." Bree drained her shake. "Mom pretty much had to pound that into me - "Take care, or you'll wind up like your father."

"Last I saw, your father wasn't complaining that much."

"Papa was never a whiner. He always told it like it was, but he never whined. And I think he likes it better over here anyway." Shaking out her blades, Bree moved out of the slot. The noon rush was now in full swing. Juno took one last draft and followed.

Bree had a few "chill" hours to herself in her quarters before she went back on standby. While Juno had her "nap" - doctor's, or rather, flight mechanic's orders - Bree was texting with her younger sister, Robin. Robin was already mated, with a Dauphin/Blackhawk cross daughter who was already approaching preschool age. Her mate, Brett Seligman, was a master sergeant in the army, and currently deployed overseas. Robin was an aerial surveyor based in Colorado; her job took her all over the state but her family home was based in Cortez, not far from Ash Mountain, and she had a unique place in history as one of the first of her world's natives to encounter the humans who had been "transported" into this timeline in the wake of a supervolcano eruption in their own. Bree herself had met them some time after.

This afternoon, the conversation was centered around Melissa's upcoming fourth birthday and the choice of a gift. Bree had found a large, stuffed Falcon Hawk plush online, and was having it shipped to Robin, as Melissa adored the famous aerobatic team. She also received some pictures of Melissa playing and cuddling with the dogs at the settlement, which she also adored.

Robin also relayed the news that Maeve Tomlinson, one of the resident musicians, had just delivered her third child, a baby girl weighing in at six pounds, four ounces. Tess Richter, the matriarch of the Ash Mountain refuge, was managing her type two diabetes despite the scarcity of insulin, which they had to extract from beef pancreases whenever they could afford to slaughter a few head of cattle from their herd. Along with the humans had come animals, mostly breeding stock, and despite building up the numbers over the past few years, meat of any quantity was still a luxury for them. Even the offal had to be conserved for the dogs and cats that couldn't live without animal protein. However, they had managed to increase the yield of tilapia in the fish tanks by 10%, and poultry by 5%, so that was more good news. With the population increased by the NORAD survivors and the Austrians and Nomads brought in by the enigmatic "Amberites", they needed all they could get for the present population of approximately 1,200 souls, or 1,500 if accounting for the Nomad group who had settled in another section of the Raven tribelands and lived off what their own herds provided, though their children attended morning classes with the Ash Mountain kids.

Bree almost always managed a visit when she had leave, not only because of her sister and her fiancé who also lived there, but also to immerse herself in the Ash Mountain on-site archives. Compiling a reading and viewing list of the best of human-world literature and media was one of her side projects, and one that her mentors in military academia tacitly encouraged. But, it didn't seem to be in the cards this month. However, there was another email from Jordan, her twin brother, and his wife Rosemary. Jordan had finally landed a position with a SAR team in the heart of Colorado's ski country; Rosemary was doing charter work and VIP transport from Denver to the resort areas. Bree, of course, congratulated them on their good luck in finding those jobs. Somehow, all of the LeVasseur brood but herself had wound up in the same state, and their parents had been making noises about moving there to be closer to their children. Guy and Sharon LeVasseur had been living in Texas and working for Eurocopter's American division, but with retirement looming, Colorado might look like a refreshing change from the Texas heat.

As Bree shut off her computer screen, she heard noises from the next bay. Juno was up and around again. Maybe she'd be up for a game or two before the evening duty shift began.

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><p>"Damn, this got complicated real fast." Juno shook her head as she looked over the Go board. "It's worse than chess!"<p>

"If you mean "worse" in the sense of "requires higher order thinking", I'd agree." Bree smirked on the opposite side as her friend ground the using-end of her mouth stick in frustration. "But if you want to keep those "older men of quality" hanging around, you need more to offer than just your good looks and the possibility of a hookup. After all, they can PAY for that." She dipped the business end of her stick into an indentation on a white stone on the board`s margins, and pushed it onto an available intersection of squares, taking up another of the "liberties" of one of Juno's black stones and hemming it in on three sides, making it vulnerable to capture. The other helicopter let out a yelp of dismay, but to her credit, marshalled her concentration as she pondered her next move.

The game had started out deceptively simple, but Bree's small encirclements had, step by step, dominated increasing areas of the board. Juno, loathe to lose another stone, quickly took the opportunity to block the reach of Bree's pieces, wracking her brain to work out a holding action to keep the white stones at bay. She had no illusions of matching her friend's prowess - Bree had a reputation for being every board game's dominatrix - but by Chrysler, Juno wasn't going down without a fight. She scooted another stone to the last open liberty point, hoping to guard at least her right corner from the assault of Bree's snowy little minions. Bree took maybe five seconds to consider, then initiated the first step of a consolidating strategy to isolate Juno's remaining blacks and claim another few intersections.

"Damn you, woman." Juno growled. "I should be onto you by now."

"It's not that hard when you have a plan in mind." Bree pointed out. "But you have to break it down into one move at a time and not give too much away up front." She moved another white stone into a group she had, reckoning that in another two or three moves, she might be able to cut one of Juno's black groups into two, creating "eyes" on the board. Stones became lines and squares and groups of black and white, waging a cold war of patterns on the wooden grid. Juno eyed the increasingly complex array, and finally succeeded in capturing a couple of stones from Bree.

Then, their concentration was broken by an alarm over the station's PA system. Somewhere south of Catalina island, there was a yacht and a few wealthy clients who had got themselves into some engine troubles in choppy seas. Fortunately, only one of them was required, along with a flight mechanic to resolve whatever issues these unfortunate wayfarers were having.

Juno pulled back. "Oh, slag! just when I was starting to get somewhere."


	3. Chapter 3

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what? _**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

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><p>When Myfanwy was three months old, Maeve finally felt confident that the infant was up to traveling, and made preparations to join her husband, Alan. Alan had left three weeks before with his friend and old bandmate Roy and a small crew of mostly ex-NORAD and Austrian army people, those such as were accustomed to alpine terrain. With them went six sturdy mountain horses, two dogs and enough equipment and supplies for a seasonal camp. Piston Peak was twelve hours away from Ash Mountain by road, but in an "Earth" culture that had never known humans until quite recently, any separation was significant. Indeed, Maeve had debated whether taking herself and the baby away from the relative security of Ash Mountain was a wise move, but a season was a long time for her and Alan to be apart, and she was confident of nursing the baby at least through the next year before weaning off. Their first child, Brennan, was now five and would be staying with friends for the interim, at least until his parents were sure that the camp was a safe place for an active kindergartener.<p>

After the previous season's huge and near-lethal fire, officials at the national park had become concerned about the amount of brush, ladder fuels and dead trees remaining in areas that had escaped the blaze, but still posed a risk. The resident fire teams could deal with all the areas that were vehicle-accessible, but some higher montane zones could not be reached by anyone on wheels, not even the local "deere". Even the helicopters could only hoist so much, and their time and fuel were better spent at other tasks. Finally, the new superintendent obtained the blessing of higher quarters to contract a crew of humans and a few teams of horses to reach the high alpine areas of the park, to take out the deadwood and do a few controlled burns that would also serve as refresher training for the air attack team.

It wasn't the first time that humans had gone a significant distance from "The Mountain" in their six years here, but they would be in close proximity to a lot of vehicles who weren't used to humans, or their animals. Of course, that accustomization process was the other big reason why they were there. That was no small concern to Maeve as she prepared to transfer her and the baby's baggage to the charter plane who had been engaged to take them there, along with a couple of other humans. Those were Dean Haspiell, the Mountain's chief electronics technician, and Dawn Hurley, one of old Ronald Fairlamb's proteges in horsemastership and tracking. The former was looking for a bit of a change in work and scene, the latter for a chance to apply what she'd learned in a different wilderness environment, though she would be mainly helping with brush-clearing work, and replanting later.

As for Maeve herself, she would be helping out the camp cook, though there would also be the possibility of performing with Alan and Roy at the lodge, said to be the largest all-wood structure on THIS earth, but which she couldn't recall the name of at the moment. It had been a long time since "The King's Shillings" had performed "in public", outside of human community events and a few times in Cortez and last year at that "corn festival" before an audience of mostly airplanes. It wasn't quite like their old pre-blow Renfaire days, but the crowd had been enthusiastic enough. More than one there had told Maeve that she had a voice like Rowena Wingworth, whoever that was. Maeve hadn't inquired.

Finally, it was time to leave... but after the first group, they weren't going to put anyone else through a long drive in a world with no facilities for humans outside Ash Mountain and the few other self-contained settlements they'd made.

Olivia, the pleasant young King Air woman who was their transport for this trip, finally completed her preflight and did a cautious roll to check the weight distribution of passengers, baggage and fuel load before warming up her engines and taxiing out to the Mountain's private strip. The resident aircraft, mostly magic-using Raven tribeswomen and affiliates, waved them off. Maeve waved back to Kathleen and Shayla through the turboprop's round window. It was a clear, coolish morning with unlimited visibility and a light breeze from the northwest, and Olivia's takeoff was as smooth as silk, though she jested that perhaps she should have a "Baby on Board" sign in one of her windows. Finally, the King Air reached cruising altitude and deftly worked herself into a tailwind. Two hours later, she set down at Piston Peak's own runway.

Little Myfanwy slept all the way through it.

****  
>At the Air Attack station, a helicopter froze momentarily, and lifted his nose. He was a male of late middling years, his lines a combination of quite respectable Bell and Agusta parentage with perhaps a touch of Lynx somewhere in the family woodpile. His livery was red and white with sharp, angular black accents, and his eyes were the pale blue of freshwater ice. There was speculation that the name he had now was not the one he'd been born with, just a stage moniker he'd taken on for an earlier, much more public career. But no one had been bold enough to risk inquiring, and that was just fine with Blade Ranger. He hadn't spoken with his other relatives that much anyway, and last he heard, his older sister still hadn't gotten over him leaving to pursue a - horrors! - acting career instead of going to college and succeeding his father in the family firm. Blade might have had one or two regrets about these decades of estrangement, but leaving that whole suffocating, stuck-up social scene wasn't one of them.<p>

He glanced about. Dipper was still puttering about her little garden; on the scale of scenting ability, she was somewhere between "mediocre" and "don't bother". Windlifter was starting to pay attention. Cabbie was already looking down the access road, and the smokejumpers tended to follow his tells. Blade allowed himself to indulge in a slight smirk as he watched them gather beside the great Fairchild in hopes of catching a glimpse of the new arrivals. The humans' small camp was located above the switchback about a quarter mile beyond the edge of the Steerman Cliffs - close enough to be within range of aircraft senses, but just far off enough that the smokejumpers' occasional nocturnal antics wouldn't keep their new neighbors awake at night. That was NOT the way to start a good relationship.

From the dark recesses of the repair bay, Maru finally emerged. In the tower, Patch noted the behavior of the aircraft and looked expectantly up the road. The superintendant was heard, at least by the aircraft's hearing, before he was seen. In previous years, the prospect of dealing with the man in charge had been anything but pleasant, so the change in management in the aftermath of the previous year's debacle had been quite welcome.  
>There was a glint of movement through the trees at the bend of the road leading up from the valley, then Jammer finally came into view, with a younger van tailing the old guide bus. Blade engaged his distance vision, and his sight leaped from color to shades of grey as he sought to make out the nitty-gritty details of the van's passengers. Two - no, three human heads. One man, twentysomething, bearded, a bit darker-complected than his companions. Two women, both quite fair-skinned, one very young. The back passenger windows were down, and the scents became stronger. There was a fourth, but out of view. This initially puzzled Blade, until he remembered what he'd overheard of the humans' chatter on his last visit to that camp. Someone's - was it Alan's wife - coming in? And they had a baby. A baby girl. Three months old, they'd said. All right, it all made sense now.<p>

Dipper finally picked her head up, and hurried out to see the procession. At this distance even she couldn't miss the olfactory nuances, and the bright yellow scooper lifted herself on her undercarriage, striving to see. "Oooh, that must be the baby we heard about!" She edged closer to the shoulder of the road.

Blade snapped his attention back to his team. "Not so close!" the air boss warned. The water bomber's face showed a ripple of "slightly miffed", but she obeyed promptly. When the first group of humans and animals arrived a month ago, he'd had his metaphorical hands full keeping over-curious Dipper and over-curious smokejumpers from crowding the poor souls, spooking their horses or running over their dogs, until things settled into a "new normal". But a tiny babe in arms was about to get them all going again.

For an underscore, the base PA system was now playing ... a lullabye.

The first time had caught Blade and the other elders a bit by surprise, but they didn't hesitate to get the situation under control now. "We'll pay them a call later, WHEN they're squared away and ready to deal with us." he announced. "In the meantime, good little boys and girls still have their chores to do." With a sharp half-turn of his rotors, the air attack chief began to shepherd the more distracted smokejumpers back from the edge like a giant red border collie.

****  
>Myfanwy opened her eyes, cooing and gurgling. The music from the air attack base was subsiding as the van drove farther, following the old ranger who was now superintendent. Maeve looked over and smiled at her infant daughter. "Now you wake up. You must know that Daddy's near."<p>

The baby responded with smiles and more babbles. Dawn and Dean turned back in their seats and looked on tolerantly. Myfanwy was a bundle of blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked cuteness; Jammer and the new van, Darren, had been fascinated by the tiny human who was as yet too early in development to lift her own head, yet already commanding attention. Vehicle babies were also adorable, but much more precocial at birth. They had to be ready to keep up with their parents by what would be toddling age for a human, and much of what would take a human months or years to learn in terms of "driving skill" or flying, or whatever was already hardwired instinct and reflex in the children of motor persuasion. A tiny being who was so dependent was a novelty to this Earth's natives.

Dawn turned her head back to the front as she heard a high-pitched whinny. Soon they were passing the area that had been converted into paddocks for the horses, fenced with capped T-posts and hot tape. A small, solidly built gelding followed along the fenceline at a brisk tolt, calling out again. Wild bay, upright mane, minimal sabino markings, mealy nose and flanks, gulastra plume... "There's Elvis!" He was an offspring of the horses that the Nomad followers of Elena of Amber had gifted to Ash Mountain upon their arrival. The other equines were Norikers and Haflingers, brought by the Austrians who had also followed Elena on her "hellride" to this continuum. That mode of travel and why it was best to do it by horse... well, no one here had really delved into the mechanics - or quantum mechanics - of Amberite transportation; people had learned to content themselves with the fact that it just... happened.

Elvis stopped at the pasture gate as the two vehicles pulled into the "dooryard" of Camp Eightball, an assemblage of trailers and utility tents grouped into a rough cul-de-sac around a mess tent and water station. The camp's full human complement, at present, was fifteen souls, but ten of them were away at work. A dually pickup woman was parked beside the horse trailer; she took notice of the incoming vehicles and honked twice. The five humans and two dogs present assembled before the mess tent, and one of them was a tall, stout viking of a man with flaming auburn hair and beard. That was Alan.  
>"There's my wench and squally brat!" he called out. "Lemme give you a kiss, woman!"<p>

"That's my big fuzzy bear!" Maeve embraced her husband while Dawn unbuckled the baby seat and carried the infant over. Dean was already hauling gear out, including his massive collection of DVD's and bootlegs ripped from the films and other media in archival storage at Ash Mountain. He was assisted by Jurgen, a one-time Austrian army corporal who jibbed him about the inhabitants of the neighboring firefighters' station who might like to get their steely clutches on his media stash, because their "_arschkecher_ of a chief" didn't let them download excessive amounts of movies or music and they'd seen their own store of movies ten times over.

The two canines, Bess and Shasta, wriggled in joy around the later arrivals. They were, respectively, a black Kelpie and a Husky/Malinois mix. With both being females, Jammer and Darren didn't have to worry about a dog cocking its leg over one of their tires. It was close to lunch time, and the two vehicle men stayed for coffee (one of the things that their race and humans could share) while Maeve, Dean and Shasta got their belongings put away. It wouldn't be until later that they received a text, from friends in parts quite a ways westward of the park.

* * *

><p>CFB Edmonton was thousands of miles and a national border away from Piston Peak, but the latter suddenly loomed large in the mind of one young helicopter captain in the Canadian forces. CPT Leigh Parsons had just marked her thirty-first year, but was already a veteran of the Afghanistan conflict and several other overseas tours. She had hopes that this posting at Edmonton would enable her to stay in Canada for a while, catch up with her family, and enjoy at least a few nights of uninterrupted sleep. Others recently returned from abroad were eager to get back into Canadian nightlife, the social scene and "real food", but if truth be told, Leigh's idea of a fun evening was curling up with her books and a warm drink in her hangar - alone. On duty, she HAD to deal with people. It was part of her job. But socializing afterwards... just drained her.<p>

Which is why she was dreading the last weekend of May.

Leigh's superior, Major Siglavy, had been set to attend an international conference for SAR aircraft, in the States. That was, until he had an accident during a training exercise in the second weekend of the month. The recovery process would leave the Chinook grounded until June at the soonest, but they had to send SOMEONE to that conference to keep the slot open for next time. They were in need of a volunteer who wasn't too urgently required elsewhere.

So it was one CPT Parsons who was "voluntold". The next few days became a frantic round of orientation and catching-up, so she could show her face in front of a hundred other 'craft without being too obviously "the last-minute substitution." By day, she obediently prepared. By night, she retreated to her hangar and vented her worries to family members online. Her parents, now in PEI, had been retired from Canada's coast guard for some years and knew all about the government's penchant for last-minute hassles. The now-ageing Sea King couple had brought Leigh up from infancy, though she was no genetic offspring of theirs. She was neat and sleek, they were comparative behemoths. Their eyes were brown and grey-green respectively, hers a pale arctic blue. They were merry and outgoing, she was described by the extended family and neighbors as..."quiet"... "deep-thinking", which was to say, "loner." That her conformation screamed "adopted" to the world did little to bring her out of her shell during her childhood years.

As far as her birth parentage was concerned, Leigh knew only that her bio-mother had given her up for adoption in Nova Scotia, in Glace Bay. Her adoptive parents suspected that she had come from elsewhere, as they had met her once at the office of the lawyer handling the adoption and she didn't have a local accent. Leigh's original birth certificate listed the father as "unknown." "She was quite beautiful, though." her adoptive mother had told her, once she was old enough to know. "Looked like an Agusta, but we didn't pry too much. Poor kid was absolutely heartbroken, but was obviously in the middle of a mess she didn't see any other way to get out of. She had deep dark eyes, not like yours, dear. Those must've come from your natural father, whoever he was. Whether he knew, we have no idea."

Leigh had studied herself in the mirror countless times. There was hardly a square inch of herself she hadn't gone over. Even after thirty-one years, everything she was still gave life to questions. But at the end of the day, Leigh's internal affairs were something to be put in a box and packed away for the duration.

After all, CPT Parsons had her duty to attend to... and a journey ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what? _**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

* * *

><p>After nursing, Maeve burped Myfanwy and set her down in the collapsible cradle that they had brought with them. Alan had made that cradle himself, out of the tight-grained platinum-blonde wood of the whispering silver tree, a species seen only in this version of Earth, though it seemed to be much like a linden in its shape. One of the couple's friends had added elaborate woodburned patterns, leaves, branches and flowers of the tree the cradle had been made from. It had received Brennan first, then was loaned to another couple for their child before returning to the Tomlinsons for their next. Slowly, Maeve rocked her baby girl to sleep with one hand while reaching for her cell phone with the other. The phone was, like most everything else in this world, a bit outsized for a human hand, having been designed for a pitty's use. But it was manageable enough lying flat on the table while Maeve's finger clicked the inbox open.<p>

The top message drew her attention immediately. Bree LeVasseur, Robin's sister, did not text a great deal to people outside of family and close friends, but when she did, it meant something.

_Hey! Robin told me that you were going to be with your husband at Piston Peak. Juno and I just found out we will be going there for the SAR aircraft conference that's being held there this year. How is the baby doing?_

Maeve paused for a moment, then tapped her reply.

_Glad to hear about that, Bree. Myfanwy is doing great. We're just about settled in here for the duration. We're not far from the firefighters' base and tonight we heard "the kids" whooping and hollering, but they didn't get too bad as their chief runs such a tight ship that they'd rather face flaming death than the power of his stinkeye. When you see him, and you will, you'll understand. So how did you manage this coup?_

_Being nice to all the right yentas can account for a lot. Blabbermouths can be useful once in a while. So how are Alan and the crew? _

_They're doing all right. They're clearing out brush and snags in the really rough or high places, where the wheels and treads can't go. They say spring was pretty wet here, so no fire worries right now. Later there'll be replanting, we'll be helping out with that too. They want to get a good head start before the summer heat comes on. Fortunately, they have better management than last year._

_Heard about that, actually, but mostly because a certain celebrity was involved. A certain Mr. Crophopper._

_Oh yeah, him. The crew says one of the fire team women never shuts up about him. "Dustmuffin", heh. Heard he might be invited back for the conference, but don't know for sure yet. Depends on what HIS schedule is. So how is Juno? _

_Juno's doing OK. Roddy's keeping her on her meds and supplements. He'll be coming with us, actually. _

_Yeah, guess he'd have to. BTW, Dawn and Dean are with us now, Dean is already rubbing his hands and scheming about what he can trade with the smokejumpers, pirate that he is. _

_Kind of figured. Anyway, I'm going to get to sleep, tell you more later OK? _

_OK, g'night!  
><em>

Dawn was up with the birds, wincing as balsa thrushes alighted on her head and plucked loose hairs. The little things had no ingrained fear of a species of people who had only appeared on this planet six years ago. _Note to self, wear a hat!_ She was helping to feed horses and gather up all the manure for the composter before going to the coop to gather eggs, and then help out with breakfast.

The humans had also chickens and goats for eggs and fresh milk, the latter were the dwarf variety, easier to contain. So far they had had good luck keeping the critters on their side of the fence, though Elvis, the Nomad pony, was notorious for undoing latches, bolts and knots. It had been learned, very quickly, that you didn't just tie one of these horses and leave them alone. Their stall and gate latches required both hands to open. Ironically, Nomads were just fine when loose in a pasture, but unfortunately there wasn't a big, lush meadow handy atop the Steerman cliffs.

Elvis was being a right little punk this morning, harassing the Norikers until they went after him with pinned ears and bared teeth, but he always managed to evade both. Dawn broke open a bale of alfalfa and laid out a number of small piles throughout the paddock, making sure there was one more pile than there were horses so the dominant animals couldn't chase the others off the hay. She looked up at the sound of a helicopter's rotors, coming in from the V6 Valley. Dawn hadn't really laid eyes on the air attack chief before this morning, but noted his good health and vitality, powerful build and purposeful way of going. So that was Blade. Alan had said that he wasn't the sort who cared for slackness or excuses, and so far, her first impressions didn't disagree.

Roy Sweeney, the old bandmate of Maeve and Alan, came up with the manure cart. "Quite the man, isn't he?"

"Maeve said that Bree and her friend were coming over for some kind of conference in a couple of weeks?" Dawn finally turned back. "If Juno's coming, I can see her all over that guy."

"Yeah, he's definitely the "accomplished older man" type." Roy chuckled as he raked the horses' overnight deposits into a pile. "Or maybe, "old hardass."

Dawn resumed divvying up the hay. "But he would have to be, right?"

"Well, you ride herd on a bunch that includes Li'l Miss "21 Tons of Starstruck" and and five boisterous bobcat types weighing anywhere from two to five tons each, you gotta be stern." Roy kept pitching manure. "Did you see'em yesterday?"

"Uh-huh. They were all lined up when we passed by." Dawn broke out another square bale. "No offense to them, but I'm gonna keep something solid between us if they come visiting today."

"Don't worry too much, Blade's rule on visits is, he or Windlifter's gotta be here, unless it's just Dynamite or Maru, or Patch. Windy's the green skycrane guy, and Blade's straw boss. Polite enough, he is, but not really talkative."

"Who's the really big twin-prop guy?"

"That's Cabbie. Old Air Force vet. Nice enough. He carries the smoke jumpers, God knows how he does; their combined weight, I'd think, would easily exceed the carrying capacity of his type. But somehow he manages. Saw them do a few training drops in this little valley, I'd hate to think of what would happen if a chute fails on one of'em."

Dawn shuddered. "I don't think I could look - ooof! ELVIS!" She was almost bowled over as the fourteen-hand pony decided that her back would be just the thing to relieve his itchy head. "I'm not your scratching post!" After spreading out the last pile of hay, she trotted off to collect eggs.

* * *

><p>Feeling the tug of the bouy on her hoist, Leigh rose and winched at the same time. There was a stiff, blustery wind coming out of the west, and more than a bit of swinging as the captain maneuvered to compensate. Frowning, she upped her throttle and instinctively worked her cyclic and collective together to maintain a rock-steady hover. On the field below, there were others watching, including Major Siglavy, whose twin rotors towered above the other observers. On the swashplate of his aft rotor, there was still bracing to allow the repairs from his accident to heal up. For Leigh, it was bad enough that her commanding officer and the ground crew were watching. Work was one thing - as long as everything stayed in one piece, one's every move wasn't scrutinized. But being "on show" - that was a whole different box of tacks. In Leigh, the prospect of being the sole focus of attention for an entire audience tended to inspire... nerves.<p>

As soon as the dummy was safely secured, Leigh took it to the drop zone and lowered it, as close as possible, onto an "X" painted on the grass. It was then a matter of rinse-wash-repeat, three more times. She felt a nervous heat beneath her plating, and condensation dripping like sweat. Her insides were fluttering as she touched down on the landing zone and waited for her blades to still. The major was still frowning slightly, whether from his opinion of her performance or the lingering discomfort of his injury, Leigh did not know. She just hoped it was only the latter.

"Better than yesterday," he pronounced "But I'm hoping you'll shave a few seconds off that time before you head out. We don't want to embarrass ourselves in front of THAT crowd."

"No, sir, I wouldn't." Leigh's tone and expression were neutral, though being reminded that she would be essentially representing her nation before the elite of the SAR aircraft community did nothing to settle her insides.

"Now, Captain..." Siglavy turned his bulky frame about, motioning with a blade for Leigh to follow. "Your usual attendant, Sgt. Nadeau, will not be with you on this trip, you already know that. My aide, Mr. Cheng, will be looking after you, and he'll let you know what to do and say and when to do it, he'll have all my materials handy. You can put up with him for a few days, can't you?"

"Of course, Major. It'll be no problem, sir." It was all Leigh would commit herself to saying for the present. Just what she needed, Siglavy's adjutant acting as minder on top of everything else heaped on her plate.

"Good." the Chinook nodded. "It's getting noonish now, so I'll see you again after lunch so you can get caught up. Later." With that, he rolled off. The officers' mess, however, was the last thing on Leigh's mind as she sought the nearest latrine, while trying not to look too hurried or distressed. The nerves had finally worked their way down to her tank, and with a wracking heave, she vomited the remnants of its contents down the drain.


	5. Chapter 5

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what?_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

* * *

><p>The propane-fuelled fire bowl didn't have quite the romantic flicker of a traditional campfire, but neither did it have potentially hazardous sparks. In its glow, a thin, high-cheeked human female of mid-fortyish years sat with a Gibson twelve-string balanced across her lap; the guitar's body was covered with stickers with phrases like "Born again fan" and "Reality is for people who can't take science fiction", at least one Linux penguin, and a dagger-wielding elf woman drawn directly on the wood. Her voice was a rough-edged contralto that suggested more than just a dalliance with the gods of nicotine, almost mannish in tone, but that well suited a Rudyard Kipling poem set to music.<p>

_"Oh, it's twenty-five marches to Narmo,  
>It's forty-five more up the Rhone,<br>And the end may be death in the heather,  
>Or life on the emperor's throne,<br>But whether the eagles obey us,  
>Or we go to the ravens alone,<br>I'd sooner be Lalage's lover  
>Than sit on the emperor's throne." <em>

There were other humans seated on logs around the firebowl, almost halfway around. They sipped tea, coffee and home-brewed beer while they either listened or chatted quietly amongst themselves or with their visitors. On the other side of the fire, someone with no concept of "indoor voice" wondered (aloud and too loud) how humans could travel hundreds of miles on just their feet, until two female voices on either side hissed his manners back into him. It still wasn't soon enough to avoid drawing a sharp look from their boss, who had been in conversation with the humans' camp leader and his common-law partner. Closer to the camp tents, another visitor gathered close, as if in some slightly illicit endeavor, with two other humans over the glowing screens of a couple of laptops and several boxes and binders of discs. Occasionally, a whicker or whinny could be heard from the paddocks, just over the music.

Maeve was sitting just inside the screened-in "porch" area of one tent, baby blanket over one shoulder, lightly concealing the exposed area of her bosom as she nursed her daughter. Myfanwy, fortunately, was a good sleeper, not waking and crying at every little noise. She did, however, make it known when she was hungry! The air boss had allowed his crew a brief meet-the-baby session, then shepherded them away so that Maeve could nurse in privacy.

Maeve's first close-up impressions of Blade and his people were generally favorable, though that Avalanche character could certainly use some lessons in vocal control. Then he might be able to enjoy an evening out without constant dirty looks and whispered admonitions from Dynamite and Pinecone. As for the others, Patch had gone off huddling with Dean and Jurgen over the new collection of media files the former had just brought in, and there was some hushed but lively trading going on. By the paddock, the slender form of Dawn was illuminated, along with that of Maru, who was tactfully but firmly keeping Drip and Blackout at a safe remove from the delicate-looking girl. The humans already knew the margins of safe movement, but the smoke jumpers still had a bit of a learning curve ahead of them. Until they absorbed those lessons, strict supervision would be the rule, though the women in the crew were already catching on and relieving the air boss of his minder's burden.

Myfanwy finally gave the signs of satiation, and Maeve laid the infant over her shoulder to burp. A moment later, the baby did so, with no spitting up this time. Once tucked back into her bassinet, Myfanwy drifted off again. She was better this way than her brother had been - Brennan would bawl angrily in red-faced gusto at the drop of a hat, or anything else. At the back of her mind, the memory of the middle child still tugged at her. Rowena had lingered a month, ultimately condemned by the hole in her heart, and expired in her mother's arms despite the best efforts of the medical staff and the "users". There had been no cardiac surgeon among Ash Mountain's company, even if there had been the equipment to save her. Myfanwy, thank God, had no defects, visible or not.

At the paddock, Dawn had taken out Elvis, who viewed the visitors with frank curiosity, and lipped at Maru's top brim and lights. The Nomad pony had been taught a few tricks, and Dawn was running him through his repertoire - "shaking hands", picking up her hat, and "doing math", though she was also careful to explain the "Clever Hans" phenomenon to her small audience. "That doesn't mean horses are stupid," she explained, "They're very good at noticing small things, like changes in body tension, or even how you're breathing. They're prey animals, and in the wild, being alert to the tiniest details can be life-or-death. That's also why their eyes are on the sides of their heads, so they can see just about all the way around, though not with the depth or color perception that we have."

"So it'd be like always seeing in widescreen, with really bad color." Drip surmised. "I could see how that'd be fun, for a while." The track loader glanced over to his teamate. "Didja hear that, Blackout - hey, Earth to Blackout!" he rapped his claw against the skid-steer's piston. "Dawn's down here, buddy. What's up there that could possibly be so interesting?"

"Uh, just some thrushes. What was she saying again?"

"Some thrushes, eh? Like we see every other day here?" Drip harrumphed and started into a recap.

Maru ducked from the pony's continued attentions. "Don't chip your teeth on me, boy," the mechanic chuckled as Dawn tugged Elvis' lead rope. From the direction of the firebowl, Avalanche made some sort of exclamation. Elvis snorted, pricked his ears and raised his head, giving the situation a good look. "They also have good hearing." Dawn added, though only the completely deaf could have missed that. "And smell too, about as good as a dog's. I was scent-training him, before he got sent up here."

"The boss has a good nose too." Blackout interjected. "He can sniff out a stash of hi-grade from a mile off."

"Much to all our regret." Maru smirked before explaining to Dawn. "No hard booze on base, that's his rule."

"Same here, just beer and wine." Dawn shrugged. "I'm still too young for THAT - Hey!" she recovered her hat from Elvis' questing lips. "I was gonna say, lips are like fingers - or grippers - for horses. And Elvis is VERY clever with his. We have double latches on the paddock gate for a reason, and you're looking at him." She poked the horse in the neck. "Enough of that, buster, unless I tell you to." snickers came from the observers. "He can even undo knots. Watch this." Dawn knotted the pony's lead rope around a T-post and stood back. Elvis hardly waited ten seconds before he was at it with his lips and teeth, seeking the bight of the knot and pulling it loose. She caught the lead before the thought of taking off occured to the animal. "That's why we can't just tie him and leave him."

Maru snickered. Blackout just stared. Drip shifted his eyes to the side and stubbed a tread. "Lucky him. I can't even do that."

"Not all horses either, for sure." Dawn tugged Elvis back again. "Nomads are a whole different breed. Sub-species, even. Other horses have sixty-four chromosones. They have sixty-six, like Przewalski's horses, even look a lot like them, except for being trainable, of course -"

"Przewa-WHAT?" Blackout took on a quizzical look.

Dawn realized that she'd gotten a bit too far ahead of her audience. "Mongolian wild horses, humanside. Truly wild, not feral."

"OK." they finally seemed to comprehend, though slowly.

Over by the firebowl, another singer was taking his turn, singing out "The Witch of the Westmoreland" with a resonant baritone. It was Alan. His voice was smooth and carried far, unlike the sharp crow-like tones of Sylvie, the woman who had preceded him in turn. This drew the attention of the smoke jumpers still outside the circle, and Dawn figured it was time to put Elvis to bed anyway. "I can tell you more next time." she waved them off.  
>"Thanks." Maru grinned to her. "Next time I'll bring some carrots."<p>

"OK, since SOMEBODY asked..." Alan flashed a look around the crowd surrounding the firebowl - Dynamite and Pinecone mutually jabbed Avalanche at that point - "How slow, frail humans could march thousands of miles from, say, Rome to Gaul? Well, they did it averaging fifteen miles at a time, while wearing their armor and carrying sixty pounds of kit and weaponry - the length of V6 Valley, for example, would be about a good day's march for them. A hiker in good physical condition can do maybe thirty miles in a day, but a column of soldiers also had a baggage train and camp followers behind them. That procession moved a bit like a Slinkie at times - front and back moving faster or slower than the middle section, that kind of thing. Terrain and road conditions also factored into it. If they didn't have baggage and hangers-on weighing them down, they might be able to do twenty miles a day, or twenty-five in a forced march. And on top of that, they had to break down camp in the morning and set it up again in the next spot before nightfall. Romans didn't half-ass anything, not while their civilization was at its peak."

While Alan continued to hold forth, Pinecone registered some surprise as a large helicopter nose came up beside her, but Blade's head was tilted in listening mode. The telehandler woman was trying to visualize a long train of humans in armor, marching as one body, in a train of people and animals and baggage possibly miles long. As if reading that, Alan added. "Maybe Dean has copies of _Gladiator_ or _Quo Vadis_ or _Ben Hur_, though the most recent film is the most accurate with details of equipment and clothing. It'll give you an idea."

The air boss was thinking, then he finally spoke, "In armor, huh? Sounds like it'd be a real joy to wear in the middle of July."

"You're not far wrong." Alan smiled. "After a few hours in the sun, it gets downright... swampy in there. After seventeen days of mayhem at the last Pennsic War we attended, everything we wore... got a wee bit aromatic. We were living in Canada at the time, and we had to go through customs on the way back home. One customs guy wants to look in our trunk, we just go "Sure!" and we open it right up for him. Picture this big, tough-looking 'roid monkey reeling back from "too much funk in da trunk". They just slammed it back down and waved us through. We could've had drugs or cigarettes there - not that we would've - and we'd' have gotten clean away with it." Half of Alan's references were flying over the Carside natives' heads, but the smoke jumpers were laughing as they got the general idea.

Avalanche leaned forward, "So you actually put on armor and fought like that?"

"Our armor was mostly recycled tires and PVC, and our swords were rattan, but yeah." Alan nodded. "SCA heavy combat is full-speed and just about full-force, so we felt every hit, believe me."

"Sounds like fun." Avalanche was really interested now, a grin spreading across his face that his chief had learned to recognize as an "early mischief warning."

"Sounds like work that Maru doesn't need," Blade moved to head off his team at the "getting ideas" pass. "Anyway, we all have an early morning, so we shouldn't keep everyone here up any longer. Baby needs her sleep, after all." He gave a nod and a dry smile to the humans. "Thank you for putting up with us."

"No problem." Daryl Colorow, the camp boss, returned the nod. "Always good to see you." This hadn't been the first visit for Blade, but this was the first time all of the smoke jumpers and both tugs had been here. One of the latter, Patch, rejoined their party with her tines full of binders and a couple of hard drives, presumably full of bootlegs. The helicopter suppressed an eye-roll at this. He had been relieved when that old tape full of _CHoPs_episodes finally wore out and broke. A legal dispute between the heirs of the executive producer had held back any DVD release in the meantime. Though it wasn't charitable to wish the extension of a toxic family feud, Blade was perfectly happy to see a re-release kept off the market a little longer. But what was worse, that or a slew of humanside movies that could inspire some disastrous instances of "hold my can and watch this?"

Such were the worries of a "team Dad."


	6. Chapter 6

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what?_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

* * *

><p>On the first morning of the conference, Blade spent his first post-waking moments grimly contemplating the hosting and keynote-speaking tasks to which duty had condemned him. It was not so much the conference itself, but the location that was damn near giving him hives. He couldn't look at Grand Fusel Lodge, much less enter its cavernous lobby, without wondering how many millions of the park's budget had gone into the opulent renovations that a certain Mr. Spinner had demanded when he was superintendant, or remembering the aches and pains of days spent in post-repair recovery after the previous year's huge fire. Yet, Blade was expected not only to enter, but make the opening speech of the three-day event. <em>There is not enough booze in the world to make me WANT to go THERE, of all places and speechify in front of several hundred people.<em> Even if they were all peers in the fraternity of SAR and aerial firefighting.

He raised himself finally, shaking out his rotor assembly and stretching his undercarriage joints. Maru, gods bless him, had left Blade's coffee, linseed mash and oil at the hangar doors. Oil for the engine, mash to sustain life, coffee to kick the higher centers of his brain into gear and overcome the toxic, acid-tongued savage who occupied its hypothalamic nether regions. More than once, Blade had been told that he had the ideal name, that he was the quintessential bull helicopter who embodied the stereotypical rotorcraft temperament to the extreme - low "idiot tolerance", a wit caustic enough to strip paint, and a general outlook on life that would convince many that all helicopters originally came from Missouri - "Show me!" A race of vehicles who lived by the precision of parts and precision of movement could not afford complacency, nor credulity, nor hysteria. That was hardwired into every one of them at birth, reinforced by the admonitions of their elders in childhood, and enforced by regulations and peer pressure in maturity.

It was still dawn yet, so Blade ate slowly. The mash had enough moleasses added to drown out the metallic taste of nutritional supplements that the tug insisted on adding. The rest of the team were stirring about now, some more "morning people" than others. The sky was clear, with some banks of mist clinging to the trees in the valley below the base's small mesa. It had rained the previous day, however, and still smelled like it. The air boss's nose quivered slightly as he read the other scents blown in by the breezes. The odd whiffs of human and animal scent from Camp Eightball had been an interesting addition to the usual, even with the occasional pungent noseful of a substance that horses tended to produce in not inconsiderable quantities. But manure was actually good for something if anyone asked Dipper, who'd been putting the stuff on her garden - after proper treatment, of course. The rapid composter the humans brought with them reduced a season-long process to several weeks.

Some other scents from the encampment were much more pleasant. Maybe twice a week, there was that scent of "bacon" that Blade and Windlifter found strangely intriguing, though the fixed-wings were completely indifferent to it. It was enough to make him take some stock in the evolutionists' theory that the first rotorcraft evolved from montane and hill-country predators, and the first airplanes from plains-dwelling obligate herbivores.

"Good morning, boss." Patch's voice filtered in over Blade's radio, on a private channel. "Just a reminder about the visitors coming into Eightball. Their ETA is 0715, they'll be coming past us out of the southwest, on their way over the cliffs. "

"Copy that." Blade hoped Patch could make that out, as he was licking the last of the moleasses off his chops. He'd had his coffee too, so he was getting into that "minimally approachable" stage. The newcomers' ETA was still about forty-five minutes into the future, more than enough time for Blade to take in his oil before they showed up. Daryl had filled him in on the particulars a day before. Two HH-65's. Coasties, here for the conference, but who also had friends in the human community. One of them was the sister of one of the first people of this world to meet them. So, that explained the connection, at least.

Nevertheless, it was rare for Coast Guard personnel to come so far inland for anything, even the aircraft. Their current generation of helicopter, the HH-65 Dolphin, was an unusual creature. Most other helicopters had to have hoists added on. This particular mutated strain of the Eurocopter Dauphin had them at birth - if they were female. Daryl had compared the sex-linked characteristic to the situation of calico cats; a male calico was an extreme rarity. Blade had seen a few humanside cats, at the display that a delegation from Ash Mountain had set up at the Propwash Junction corn festival last summer, where the air attack team had also done a demonstration. But those had been Bengals and Siamese, not calicos. Pushing the small, furry, mewing animals to the back of his mind, the air boss drew the last of the oil into his system, shook himself another time, and ventured out to do his morning rounds about the base.

* * *

><p>Dawn felt the burning build up in her calves and thighs as she worked to keep up with Sylvie, Rand and Heathyr, and hoped they would get to another walking phase soon. She'd committed herself to five miles every morning, of a series of walk-run cycles that Heathyr called "interval training". Not that the trimming and replanting work facing her later in the day wasn't exercise enough, but the emerging traditions of Camp Eightball included an end-of-season marathon for its participants. Last year, when Eightball was in the UK by invitation of Her Majesty, they had run through the streets of carside London, with several military officers (including one of the Queen's grandsons) acting as an escort through the Sunday traffic. This year, they planned to run the length of V6 Valley, quieter, and sixteen miles from end to end as the crow flies, but when taking variances in elevation and all the twists and turns into account, more like the traditional marathon distance.<p>

It was no surprise to Dawn to find herself at the back of the pack, yet again, with Heathyr way out front. There was no way that Heathyr Lutz had any business running, if you asked any doctor. Late-fortysomething Heathyr had been a champion distance runner in her youth, once taking gold at the Canada Games and bronze at the Pan-American, and was virtually assured a trip to the Olympics - until the first signs of multiple sclerosis began to hinder her stride. It had been the biggest blow of Heathyr's life up to that point, and her life, of necessity, took another track, that of academia and a degree in forestry sciences, aiming for a career that was literally "among the trees."

Heathyr had been working at Ash Mountain, on an international ag-sciences fellowship, during that fateful March of six years before. She had been born and bred in southeast-central New Brunswick, her father from mostly-anglophone Moncton and her mother from mostly-francophone Dieppe. After all this time, she had resigned herself to the fact that she might never know what became of her old home after "the blowup", and kept her wiry, short-haired self deep in the bowels of Ash Mountain's horticultural section and plant nurseries, until the opportunity to do comparative studies of conifers at Piston Peak presented itself. Heathyr had never married, though she and Daryl Colorow had been in a relationship for the past four years.

The plant life of this world had been another welcome diversion - the golden daggerleaf, the whispering silver trees and the "summer snow" flowers that blanketed the meadows of carside Colorado in July were an endless fascination. But it was a wild herb - a strain of thyme thought to have been introduced by the first steam-powered settlers to this region - that had recently come to prominence in her life. This strain was not quite like the wild thyme of humanside. After exposure to a patch of the plant seemed to settle an MS attack, she took samples, and distilled them. When she combined it with alcohol and DMSO and applied it in measured amounts to her skin, Heathyr discovered that the herbal extract could keep the MS at bay, at least enough to get her legs back under her again.

To walk, without a cane.

_To run again. _

In addition, it was discovered that certain sections of Piston Peak were lousy with the plant, and it was sweeping through the burned-over areas like the wildfire that had preceded it. As Heathyr and the others ran along the road leading back up past the air attack base, they could just about smell it in the updraft that came up the walls of the mesa. The aircraft, no doubt, would be getting their bloodhound-sensitive noses full of it. Checking back, Heathyr realized that she was outrunning the others again, and slowed back into a walk, just as they came by the base.

Dawn greeted the break with relief. After a winter of relative inactivity, she was almost staggering, and came to a stop with hands on knees, panting. "Just go on ahead," she waved the others off. "I'll catch up."

"We can stay a moment." Heathyr was reluctant to leave one of the party alone on the road. No matter how friendly the locals were, they still weren't quite used to sharing space with humans yet. "You know Daryl would half kill us if we left you behind." They were directly by the base now, and its inhabitants had noticed. The tugs were OK, so were the choppers and the big guy, and the other 'gravel-cruncher' women; the smokejumper boys were FINALLY starting to get it, but that air tanker... just as Avalanche had no concept of "indoor voice", Dipper had none of "personal space", at least when it came to interesting strangers. The last time the humans had been in touch with a certain Mr. Crophopper, he had heard that there'd be a camp at Piston Peak this year and took a few moments' trouble to call long distance from an overseas racing event to warn them as bluntly as a well-brought-up midwesterner could manage - "Watch out for Dipper. The way she goes, she could put one of you guys in traction before she even knew it. I am NOT kidding about this. .OUT." Seeing the air tanker roll back on her rear gear and call out, Dawn recalled those words with perfect clarity, and was greatly reassured to see Maru bolting out to run interference, drifting himself neatly between Dipper and the runners as she breached the twenty-foot bubble.

"Dipper, remember the bubble." the tug admonished, raising his tines in the STOP signal of an aircraft marshaller, a split second before Dawn was about to do the same. Thankfully, Dipper's conditioning took hold and she put on the brakes, though her mouth was still fully engaged. "Hi guys, how's the baby settling in - oh, sorreeee.." her smile became awkward as she finally became aware of her faux pas. "Hope I didn't scare you or anything."

"S'OK." Heathyr returned a no-harm-done smile, but had her hands up and palms out just the same. "Maeve and Myfanwy are doing just fine, we'll let Maeve know that you asked. We're just getting a little breather here before we head on back to camp." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blade drawing near, and resisted the impulse to step back. _That man could fill up a screen, would never take him for being even part Agusta, they're usually so refined and pretty, like Arabians. But he's a "bull" for sure!_

Carside, the term "bull" applied not only to the males of certain sub-sapient species, but also a dominant male helicopter, though it was not PC to use the term to his face, or in any polite company. If one achieved a dominant position and held onto it for more than a year or two, he actually went through some subtle but noticeable physiological changes, chiefly the bulking-up of the body and engine and the further deepening of the voice. Robin LeVasseur had explained this to the humans years before, when they marvelled at the relative size and physicality of the commanding officer of the Army battalion her husband served in. They had also noticed a degree of the same in the patriarch of the LeVasseur clan, Guy. The natural social structure of helicopters wasn't, however, as male-dominated as the simple biology would suggest; females could and did take dominant roles, and NO ONE messed with elder women. Even bulls paid respect to them. This courtesy also appeared to extend to other vehicle types, and even humans of advanced years. _Am I old enough to qualify yet?  
><em>  
>Blade stopped with a three-foot cushion between himself and the twenty-foot line. "Good morning. Newbie's not slowing you down too much?" Dawn blushed and seemed about to retreat into nod-and-smile-land, if she wasn't already there. "Don't let Dipper scare you. Give her some time and she might even discover the concept of "personal space." If Dawn had been slightly pink in the cheeks, Dipper was downright flushed, enough to show through her paint. But, to her credit, she stood and took her lumps.<p>

"Oh, Dawn's holding up pretty well." Heathyr replied, lightly punching the girl's upper arm. "She'll be doing ten miles again pretty soon."

"Didn't have any deere blocking the trail again?"

"Not today." Rand shook his head, finally speaking up. Rand was mid-twentyish, strawberry blond and pale, wearing a boonie hat against the already climbing sun. He was rail-thin and wore an old T-shirt with a "ConCertino 2007" logo on it. "They musta smelled our BO and figured they'd better clear the deck."

"You don't smell bad." Dipper protested.

"Not much she does smell." Maru leaned over to the humans with a stage whisper as the air tanker reacted with a restrained eye-roll. "Not even herself when she comes out of the garden with a coating of manure dust."

"Manure grows flowers." Dipper stuck her tongue out at the tug. "And flowers are pretty, gotta admit. I just sent some seeds to Dustmuffin last week!"

"What?" Another female voice called out. "No restrainin' order YET from him?"

"Oooh, willya mind your own business, Piney?" the air tanker's attention turned momentarily to the telehandler woman in red, who grinned wickedly as she went about her chores. But then she bounced back to Dawn. "Don't let Pinecone fool you. Beneath that innocent face is the soul of a sly and sneaky grifter. There, you've been warned."

"Dipper's still miffed that Pinecone beat her at cards last night, and stuck her with latrine duty again." Another stage whisper from Maru. That gave Blade the excuse he needed to shoot a pointed GET-BACK-TO-IT look to Dipper, who finally had to excuse herself, and it looked like the humans were getting ready to resume their run anyway. "She'll get better with this, even if I have to see to it myself." Blade promised, with finality. He was about to say "See you later" when the sound of two sets of blades - and a distinctive whining sound - dopplered in from the southwest. Sylvie, who hadn't said much during this conversation, was already looking in that direction. "Bree and Juno. They're here!"

Two deep-orange specks were now visible coming over the bluffs down-valley, but rapidly gaining in size and detail. Blade furrowed his brows slightly. "They're a little early."

"That's Bree, always a bit ahead of schedule." Dawn explained. "And Juno's always right after. They were in the same class and division at the academy, and they've been besties ever since." She turned and waved to the HH-65 pair as they passed over the base; they followed their assigned path and regulation altitude with smooth precision, but blinked their running lights without dropping a beat. Blade raised his nose and pivoted slightly, following them with his gaze. Their unique sonic signature, he ascertained, came from the shrouded tail rotors characteristic of their line. _That would help when landing in close quarters, less chance of tree strikes at the aft end. And they know exactly where they're at and where they're going, no motion wasted. Might be interesting to see them at work. _

Patch broke into Blade's private channel. "Boss, I was about to announce, but they beat me to it."

"No worries, Patch." the air boss answered. "Seems they're early birds anyway." He turned back to the humans. "I shouldn't keep you from meeting your friends. I'll probably see you later at some point."

"You probably will." Dawn said, before turning back up the road. "Some of us are going to be helping out at the lodge, because so many aircraft are in. I'll be marshalling with Sylvie. Just got certified last month."

"Oh." Blade raised his eyeshades a bit. He already knew some bits of Sylvie's background, besides the "filk" music thing. _Military veteran, from years back. Air Force. Has marshalling experience. If she had anything to do with training this kid, they'll manage. Just hope the guests are informed before they land. Should mention that to the lodge ATC._ He snapped back to the world as the humans began to run again, with Dawn turning back long enough for one last wave.

At the far north end of the base, a huddle had already started. The smokejumpers were whispering, odds were being calculated and wagers being made. Even Windlifter paused his morning workout to eavesdrop on the betting action.

"Three minutes." Drip declared. "And he's out."

"Five, but only because the chief's way too polite to, y'know, just barge in?" Pinecone threw her cash in.

"FOUR MINUTES!" Avalanche called out.

Dynamite gritted her teeth. "Oh, proclaim it to the world, whydontcha? OK, three minutes, thirty seconds."

"You're cutting it fine, Dyna." Pinecone smirked. "What about you, Blackout? You in for this or what?"

"Uh..." the skid-steer lifted his eyes in thought. "Three minutes and ninety-nine seconds?"

"You mean four minutes and thirty-nine." Dynamite snickered. "Just like you to forget there's only sixty seconds in a minute."

"What difference does it make? I'm in." Blackout insisted.

"Whatever." the UTV shrugged.

"And what kinda mischief are you no-good punks and punkettes up to now?" a voice cut in behind them.

"Oh, hey Cabbie." Dynamite glanced back. "Just a little... you know... creative wagering?"

"Wouldn't happen to have anything to do with... ah... Blade?" the massive twin-prop checked out the small pile of cash and small change that was growing between them. "Remember, our chief is a dignified professional. He doesn't do anything merely to satisfy his idle curiosity."

"Ooh!" Dipper squealed as she rolled over. "Can I get in? Can I?"

Dynamite nodded. "Sure... as long as it doesn't come out of your mouth."

"Since when did I ever keep my money in my mouth?!"

"Don't deny it. You all do it." the UTV made a face.

"I have a proper wallet, thanks very much, and the hell if you don't know it." From under the air tanker's wing, a compartment opened and a cashbox dropped on a hydraulic arm. There was a digital readout on its front, which altered to reflect a new balance as several five-dollar bills came out of a slot and drifted down to the pile below. "There. Three minutes, twenty seconds."

"Four minutes ten." Maru jostled in and slapped down the ritual fifteen-dollar amount. That was as high a stake as Blade's base rules would tolerate. He then produced a stopwatch. "Now?"

"Yeah. NOW." Dynamite stamped a foretire. "Those Coasties should be at the Eightball LZ this second."

"Heh, I'll just kibitz." Cabbie chuckled. Windlifter just snorted, and went back to working out.

The wagerers kept one collective eye on Maru's stopwatch, and another on Blade. One minute ticked by... then two... and three. Some groaned as their times passed. But then, just at the four-minute point, Blade, still at the opposite end, made a decisive move... then spooled up.

His wheels left the ground at 4:33

"Well, whattaya know." Dynamite looked back at the others. "Who's closest?" She looked at the sheet with names and estimated times of departure written in a scrawl. "I guess... Blackout wins."

The skid-steer swooped up his winnings in a victory dance. "Damn, I'm good."

"Once in a while." Maru cracked. "Don't spend it all in once place."

"Spend it on what? Some really bad latte or some overpriced slag at the Gift Garage?" Blackout retorted as the group dispersed. "Like they'd want us in there anyway. I can just save it for my next game system."

"You got a new one last fall." Pinecone rolled her eyes.

"OUTDATED ALREADY!" Avalanche again. "CAN'T PLAY DOMINO DEATH 4!"

Dynamite snorted. "You ask me why I don't get into gaming? That's why."


	7. Chapter 7

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what?_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

It was but a minute's hop from the base to Eightball's LZ, and Blade had done it about nine or ten times over the last month. His approach was careful, but not too hesitant. It was perhaps eight hundred feet from the camp proper, in a clearing surrounded by pines that acted as an effective baffle for the noise and wash. There was a pathway, cleared and graded, along which Blade picked his way, in no great hurry. He really, truly didn't have to be anywhere else sooner than 1400. _To hell with it. The "Damned Futile Lodge" can wait. _

As he turned around one last bend and a clump of blackberry bushes, Eightball came into view, and the HH-65 women were still in the middle of greeting their friends - not all of whom were on two legs, apparently. Bess and Shasta were just as eager as the humans to welcome the visitors, whining and wriggling with lowered ears and wildly gyrating tails. Blade paused for a few beats, taking this all in. Shasta, the "malusky" jumped up excitedly, bestowing wet kisses on the cheek of the copper-eyed one, while Bess, the little black Kelpie, offered a branch to the one with the two-toned seamist eyes. He raised his 'shades a bit as he saw "Misty Green Eyes" accept, tugging at the other end and growling playfully.

The air boss continued to watch, blinking, as an absurdly mismatched tug-of-war took place, to the great amusement of the other onlookers. Despite the size and strength differential, though, the coastguardswoman kept perfect control over her movements, finally allowing the canine to "win" after a moment or two. While Bess trotted off triumphantly with her "spoils", the misty-eyed one and her companion finally took note of their new observer. First, they and Blade blinked at each other, taking in sight and scent, then there were slightly awkward smiles as they realized that he'd been watching all this time.

A small tug, also in bright USCG colors, zipped around to the nearest one. "Lieutenant, just hold still a sec if you please." He plucked out a fragment of wood that was still lodged in her teeth. Her smile became even more strained as she realized what she'd had in her mouth with HIM there, staring right at it ... with those eyes...

...As blue as Shasta's, just... bigger.

"Sorry, got a little carried away there." she said with a strained laugh. "Uh, thanks, Tad." The two and their attendant turned to face the blue-eyed stranger. The camp boss came forward at last. "Ladies, that's Blade. He's the chief of the park's air attack team." He turned the other way. "Blade, I'd like you to meet Bree and Juno - and Tad here."

"Pleased to meet you all." Blade had recomposed himself, and returned a polite smile as his eyes swept discreetly over the names, ranks and numbers stencilled on their sides - and the muted representations of service ribbons and decorations. Not blushing maidens then, but still fairly young. "We regret that the park is still recovering from last year's fire, but there's still quite a lot to see if you can get any time away from the conference this weekend."

"Indeed. That's why we flew in early." Juno was giving Blade a once-over in turn, once he'd completely come from around the bush. "There's already little purple flowers blooming in the burned-over areas. Didn't think they'd come in so fast."_Actually, I didn't think YOU would come in so fast. But I don't mind at all._ She moved in a little closer, then turned slightly with a sidelong glance. _And yes, you can look at me a little longer.  
><em>  
>"That's the wild thyme." Heathyr Lutz spoke up. "It just started blooming."<p>

Bree, recognizing that Juno had gone into "hunt mode" without perhaps consciously realizing it, siezed the opportunity that Heathyr's momentary interjection gave her. "It is kinda amazing how nature just bounces back like that, isn't it? We've already heard a bit about you and your team, from our friends here. They're all good things, though, so you can breathe easy, Chief Ranger."

"Oh, just "Blade", if you don't mind." the air boss requested, but Bree's note of his status already had the desired effect of backing Juno off a bit. Blade reacted by relaxing slightly as Juno pulled out of his space. "Perhaps you can meet the rest of the team later, after our little "rehearsal". We'll be down at the conference for opening ceremonies, and some demos over the next few days."

"Looking forward to it." Bree kept up the patter. "We'll be doing a demo ourselves, and that competition later. This is the first time we've ever been to anything like this. I've heard some are coming all the way from Europe for it."

Blade was appreciative of the breathing space Bree's intervention was affording him. "Well, I'll admit it's the first time for us, too. Nobody would call us "social animals", but we'll do the best that we can." He squared himself up. "So, welcome to Piston Peak, and I hope you enjoy your visit."

"Thank you." Juno smiled. Something in Blade's body language hinted that he'd had more experience in dealing with an excess of female interest, at some point in the past, and he'd reverted to it quickly after the initial moment of rustiness. It didn't surprise her, he was damned good-looking for his age, in top shape, and had a readily palpable presence that the passage of time hadn't dimmed. "And I'm enjoying it already. Like you said, so much to see." She could feel one of Bree's famous slightly reproachful gazes boring a hole in her port side, and would certainly be hearing more about it later, but hell, a girl could dream...  
>"We're having coffee in a bit." Daryl broke in, "Would be no problem at all to put a bit more on."<p>

"That would be good." Bree nodded. "We've been flying two days, and started out this morning around 0400."

"You're gonna have a long day." Daryl chuckled. He turned to call out to the kitchen, but Dawn was already fetching the steel food-grade buckets they would be using to draw enough water for all that coffee. Dean, Jurgen, Alan and Sylvie were already getting ready to join the others in their assigned tasks for that morning, and would soon be out. No matter what was going on in the rest of the park, they still had their usual work.  
>From the tent porch, Maeve was watching as she sat and nursed Myfanwy. She had definitely seen THIS coming. To human eyes, Blade was something to see, in that "magnificent creature" sense, like a gryphon surveying the domains about his aerie. To certain women of his kind, that would be magnetic, despite his years.<p>

And Juno, from what she'd observed, was one of those "certain women."

As far as keeping her friend's mind on business was concerned, Bree was going to have her metaphorical hands full.

* * *

><p>"Curious? Of course he was. If only he knew what he was possibly letting himself in for." Dawn tied bands around another bundle of brush, to join the pile she and the other members of the work crew were already making on a horse-drawn sledge parked at the trail end. "And you already know about Juno's thing for the "studly older guy" types. She'll be spending the rest of the weekend scheming out how to add Blade's number to her little black book. Assuming he lets her get that close in the first place."<p>

After one week here, Dawn Hurley she figured she had a pretty good handle on the camp's closest neighbors. The air attack team boss had maintained a pleasant, if reserved front as he got further acquainted with the Coast Guard helos. Juno was polite, but definitely focused, requiring Bree to perform a couple of discreet "Earth to Juno" maneuvers. Dawn had left too early to see the end of it, though the sounds of Blade's rotors echoing out a little later told that he had departed for his morning patrol at the usual time.

From atop the brush pile, Dean Haspiell hauled the new bale into place. "OK, so she's got the hots for him. Good luck to her on that. To all appearances, Blade's a friggin' monk. I mean, he's been up here HOW long? You ask Jammer, he can tell you about the first day they met on such-and-such a date way back in '83. Or somewhere around that time. If he's "had any" in the last like, three decades, Jammer of all people would know."  
>Jurgen, who held the reins, held a finger to his smirking lips. "Shhhh. If the slightest little breeze makes a tree rustle at the north end of this valley, you had better believe that red devil can hear it at the south."<p>

"Thirty years, huh?" Dean whistled as he secured the load. "More than enough time to get to know a place. If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear? Blade does."

Dawn wiped her gloves. "Guys? You've, like, seen that bunch he has to be in charge of? Super-senses above and beyond those of the average chopper would be a perequisite for the job."

"I would think." Jurgen shrugged. "They're exactly the sort who dream up all sorts of trouble you could never forbid them to do because you couldn't imagine it in the first place. Who else could survive them?" He clucked to the horses and slapped the reins as Dean jumped off. "Have fun replanting, you crazy kids."

Dawn wiped her forehead as she watched Jurgen drive off, down to the point of the extreme limits of vehicle-friendly terrain where a couple of the smokejumpers were waiting to transfer the load to a trailer and from there to a mulcher. Most of the snags had already been cleared out, now for the seedlings, which had been carefully cultivated from progenitors found within the park's bounds, against the possibility of such disasters as last year's. Three or four hours of this, then grab some lunch and hopefully a shower before she caught a ride down to the lodge airstrip with Sylvie. Their support trailer was already in place, so no bathroom worries and enough food and drink to carry them through to the night. If she HAD to work around a large number of vehicles completely unused to humans, aircraft, relatively predictable and slow-moving on the ground, were the best choice.

* * *

><p>THE PREVIOUS NIGHT:<br>Mr. Cheng was in the midst of packing up CPT Parsons' travel chest. Her service and lifetime maintenance documents, papers for the conference, supplements, personal items and any medications, if needed, were included in the contents. The captain herself was getting one last briefing from her superior before departure, and wasn't around to oversee the tug's preparations. The female officers' quarters on the base were relatively alien territory to him, and he was picking carefully through his new charge's belongings, going by a list she'd given before heading off to her meeting. In spite of his orders, he still felt like an unwelcome intruder, rifling through a woman's private things.

At last, he stopped before the medicine/utitilty locker, and peered inside. Nutritional supplements, check. Basic medications, check. Prescription hormonal suppressant, check. That last was a bit of a novelty to him. He piled the items on the list into a plastic container and bundled them over to the slab-sided, olive-drab chest. Mr. Cheng's unease added to his haste, which had its consequences as the open container slid out of his forks two feet short of their intended destination. Groaning in irritation, he stooped and gathered everything that he could see, then plunked the box down among other little boxes in the chest.

What he hadn't noticed or thought of, however, was the bottle of hormonal suppressant, which had rolled beneath him and then out of sight, back under the wall locker.

* * *

><p>THE PRESENT:<p>

"Piston Peak Tower to Parsons November Four Three Six Five Seven." a male voice responded to Leigh's inquiry. "You are cleared to land at helipad two-west and proceed to the lodge aircraft reception area at the main gate. Be advised that there are humans in the zone and take extra care in your ground movements."

"Roger." Leigh followed the course laid out for her. The late afternoon was still bright and there was only a light breeze blowing out of the northwest. Her flight had begun in Edmonton at 0300 that morning, with several brief refuelling stops along the way. The wind might not have been an issue for Leigh, but the all the late-spring pollen in the air definitely was, and as she descended below 4000 AGL, it filled her nostrils and intakes and made her insides itch. At this time of the year, it was one more little misery she had to put up with, on top of the unwanted trip and the unfamiliar caretaker. She hoped that she would get at least some "alone time" before she had to go to the conference opening... wash off the pollen, get a bit of sleep... what were the odds of that happening?

In Leigh's main compartment, Mr. Cheng stirred. She could feel him brace for landing, a few seconds before her undercarriage kissed the tarmac. Whatever else could be said about Leigh, no one could fault her landings. Major Siglavy was a lot less delicate in his approach. The tug would have nothing to complain about, of that she was determined. Just as soon as she touched down, Leigh rolled out smartly... then sneezed. It was then that she saw one of the humans she'd been told of.

The first visual impression was of something reed-like, topped with cornsilk of a slightly reddish-gold hue. It had arms, and wore a bright safety vest, and the appendages at the ends of its arms bore marshaller's paddles, moving them out to the sides in military style, or having been trained that way. As it turned, a fair, freckled face came into view, though partially obscured by a billed cap and ear protectors. Leigh did her best to blow the pollen out of her nose so she could get a whiff of this new thing. The marshaller made a sweeping gesture to the right, and a second or two passed before the Agusta cross realized that the signal was meant for her. Leigh's cheeks darkened slightly under the olive paint as she hastened past, allowing lots of space between her and that delicate-looking little creature.

Even after joining the line to reception, Leigh kept looking back . There was one other human, in the distance, marshalling fixed-wing arrivals. They both had small, slender frames and long hair. Must be females, from what she'd already seen on TV and the net. Inside, Mr. Cheng tapped at her hatch pane; she opened it and the little tug hopped out, shading his eyes as he also took in the curious sight for a moment or two, before they reached the reception booth and he presented their reservation documents. Leigh sneezed again as the clerk passed over the suite keys to her aide; he jumped slightly before ushering the captain on to the lodge's large vehicle entrance.

The sneeze was loud enough that Dawn could hear it, all the way back at Helipad Two. _Yeah, pollen season. Must really suck to have allergies._


	8. Chapter 8

**_NOTE: This is derived from the "Swept Away" RP continuity which started in 2007 and has continued in various forms and spinoffs ever since, first on the old Hillbilly Hell forum and presently in Wingnut City. I'm sure it's not the first or only "Humans in the Carsverse" thing that ever came up. So what?_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' here with the exception of my own OC's. All things canon in the Cars/Planes 'verse are the property of Disney/Pixar._**

Blade paused at the lodge's threshold, inhaling deeply. The scents of many aircraft came back to him, and if he were so bold (and rude) as to assume a full flehmen posture in public and mixed company, he could isolate and identify every one of them. But several were already familiar- a couple of attendees from CALFIRE, one from Colorado, all people he had worked with in the past whenever a conflagration had gotten so big that mutual aid had been called for. Off his starboard side, Windlifter looked on with his usual poker-faced demeanor. Dipper was off to port and slightly back. Cabbie, too large for the lodge, had assumed a position off to one side of the entrance where he was engaged in conversation with a large Bombardier water bomber, twice Dipper's size, who had come in from British Columbia, one of several Canadians attending.

From beyond his aft, Blade heard the stirrings and mutterings of the smokejumpers, fidgeting like restless ring bearers and flower girls at a wedding. They had spent the afternoon getting scrubbed to a fare-thee-well in order to be "company ready", and were still a tad uneasy with the idea of showing themselves in a place where they had never before felt welcome. He flicked his tail rotor and blew out a pointed snort; the fidgeting ceased for the moment._I'll try to keep this short,_ he promised them inwardly, _I have to suffer this along with the rest of you_. He had heard from Dusty earlier, due to prior commitments, Propwash Junction's most famous resident would be a few hours late and would miss the opening keynote speeches, though he'd be there in time for the evening mixer. _I envy you_. At length, the event's chief coordinator, a Bell 222 in Colorado SAR livery, signaled an aide to call in Blade and those of his team who could follow. He girded himself and advanced the last few inches over the threshold, picking up a little as the crowd parted for him and the other team members following.

Decades ago, Blade had spoken out lines of dialogue on a closed set, while marveling that the scriptwriters could get such tripe past the executives in charge. Somehow, he and his co-star would make the words work in spite of themselves, and get away with a few ad libs now and then. Sometimes those ad libs were even used. But addressing a huge roomful of people - that was one thing that still gave him... butterflies. "Man up!" his father had roared at him, earlier in life, after he'd retreated from giving a speech presentation to his elementary school class. In his ongoing attempts to please the unpleasable, he eventually did "man up." _Hope you're satisfied, Dad, wherever you are._ Both parents now deceased, one older sister, one younger brother, not on speaking terms with either. For better or worse, his "family" was here, and with him tonight.

As if from a distance, his name and position were announced, followed by cheers and flashed lights. At some point his team had to fall back and wait as he ascended the ramp that would take him to the temporary stage, and the podium. As the keynote speaker continued with the introduction, Blade deployed an old mental trick as his gaze fell to the audience, of not looking at them, but beyond. He'd learned that from Nick, who could work crowds with confidence during their days of stardom. Finally, the Bell 222 moved aside, and the air boss rolled up to the mike.

"Thank you." he smiled politely to the chief speaker. "I haven't made a big speech in years, and had to come up with something on very short notice, so I hope you'll excuse my efforts. We of the Piston Peak Air Attack team would like to welcome our fellow aerial firefighters and first responders to this park, and look forward to the events of the conference to follow, and we're sure we will all learn a lot from the presenters and from each other over the weekend." He paused a beat or two. "I see some familiar faces here already, and I'm sure I'll get to know the rest of you by the time it's all over."_Oh Chrysler, let it be. _

Dynamite, coming up beside Dipper, nodded her approval. "Not bad for something he had to cobble together twenty minutes ago."

The air tanker shrugged. "For a big damn hero like Blade, that's probably nothing. Too bad Dustmuffin's late and he's missing all this."

Windlifter, for his part, just sniffed lightly and shifted a bit. Starboard of him, there were two smaller police choppers, Bell types. They looked a little more bulked-out than they should have been, and their scent reeked of "bull juice". They were talking, and made no effort to keep it down despite the annoyed looks of others nearby. Their accents were thick "urban northeastern", perhaps New York or New Jersey. Much of what they were saying wasn't exactly "safe for work".

The slightly larger one with NYPD markings peered closely at Windlifter, then snickered. "Get a load of that guy. Looks like the 70's puked all over him."

The other, apparently a Bostonian, suppressed a snort of laughter. "Yeah, he's the 'copter that time forgot." If it actually mattered to Windlifter what they were saying, he wasn't showing it as he remained focused on his team boss on the podium. Dipper and the smokejumpers, however, glanced back sharply.

"Those guys were yukking it up all the way in from the heliport." Dynamite whispered. "You know what Sylvie said when she saw them?"

"No, what?" Dipper leaned in.

"She said she hadn't seen a bigger pair of boobs since she threw out her ex-husband's dirty magazines." A ripple of stifled laughter passed through; they were already conversant in the more earthy references to human anatomy. "How long ago was that?" Dipper inquired.

"About fifteen years before the humanside blowup, she said." Dynamite turned back towards the front, "And we can compare notes on their smut vs. ours LATER."

Suddenly, the air tanker looked concerned. "Did Dawn have to deal with them? She's just a bitty twig of a girl."

"Pulaski was right there, they wouldn't give her any attitude with HIM standing by." the UTV smirked. "His "Look of Disgust" is second only to Blade's "Stinkeye of Doom" in its wondrously deadly power." Dynamite then jabbed Dipper's side with a foretire. "Now let's all shush up while the boss's talking."

"Hey, you started it!" Dipper protested, but clammed up anyway.

To the right and back of them, two USCG helos stood and gave their polite attention to the one now concluding his welcome speech up front. The seamist-eyed one, however, was more directly focused on the speaker. Juno's interest hadn't abated any since this morning, Bree could see that. She hoped that she wouldn't have to spend the evening after the dinner trying to peel her duty partner off the handsome gentleman in red, but she wasn't optimistic.

Beside them, a young woman in olive-drab Canadian Forces livery shifted nervously. She was an Agusta - mostly- by the look of her; Bree would hazard a guess of 7/8ths pure. She looked to be about the same age as Bree and Juno, with eyes like pale blue diamonds. That was probably from the 1/8th of her that WASN'T Agusta; while there might be a blue-eyed gene or two hidden in that particular woodpile, the dominant genes were so overpowering in that line that the recessives rarely got a chance to show themselves.

As for herself, "Blue Eyes" seemed to be making discreet efforts not to even risk brushing against anyone else, holding back from her present neighbors in the way that aircraft tugs described as "guardy". Now and then, she sniffled. Beside her, a tug waited, observing the young officer in that corner-of-the-eye sense. As Blade wrapped up his speech, the mostly-Agusta backed up a foot or two, looked around and jigged in place, the aircraft's equivalent of "checking one's watch." Her DON'T-WANNA-BE-HERE vibes were all too obvious to Bree, whose question would have been _why, then? _

Glancing further back, Bree could see the figures of Dawn, Sylvie, Heathyr and Daryl outlined in the lodge entrance. They were safer out there for the moment; very few vehicles present would be used to humans moving around them. There would be a few more later, as the King's Shillings had been asked to play a set or two at the mixer to follow the dinner. The next day, they would bring a team of horses down for the conferees to check out. As soon as the introductory speeches were over, she and Juno edged out of the crowd and moved out so that the lodge staff could start setting up for the meal.

Through the open door of the trailer, the humans partaking of supper could see the aircraft at their own dinner inside. Places had also been set under a canopy outdoors for the oversize ones, and there was also a meal provided for the tugs and other attendants who had accompanied various attendees. Sylvie was outside, catching a smoke on her meerschaum pipe, the one with a skull-shaped bowl. She had given up tobacco a long time ago, but still enjoyed herbal blends - nothing really dangerous or illegal, just aromatic. So, apparently, did the aircraft outside, who raised their noses and sniffed inquisitively at the novel scent. Not far from the trailer, tugs and pitties were in a social knot of their own, with Maru close to the center of it. Occasionally, raucous laughter erupted from that direction as they swapped "war stories" and jokes in varying degrees of color, especially "off".

However, one individual in olive-drab was not taking part in that merriment, hanging on the periphery and stealing odd glances back in the lodge's direction, sometimes even going back to the entrance and peering inside. His behavior was notable enough that Sylvie decided to text Bree and see what was going on there.

_EIGHTBALL01_  
><em>Hey, Sylvie here. Didja notice a tug out here acting a little antsy and sometimes looking in? Military type, Canadian insignia. What could be up with him?<em>  
><em>SENT 7:15PM<em>

_BLEVASSEUR_  
><em>He came with the young captain at the next table from us. She seems a little shy and awkward and sat through three courses of food without touching a thing. Just saw the server remove the entree and frown a bit when he didn't think anyone was looking his way.<em>  
><em>SENT 7:18PM<em>

_EIGHTBALL01_  
><em>OK, maybe she's dieting or something. Is Juno still drooling over Bladey-pie?<em>  
><em>SENT 7:21PM<em>

_BLEVASSEUR_  
><em>She's still stealing glances. Good luck to her on that, Blade looks like a hard nut to crack. And he looks like he can't wait to be out of here. Our tablemates are both from CALFIRE, they've worked with him before, they basically confirmed that there was a lot of ill will between him and the previous park super, over budget issues and that money going into the lodge instead, culimnating in that near-catastrophe last summer. So every time he looks around and sees the opulence, it's ashes in his mouth. So romance is probably the farthest thing from his mind.<em>  
><em>SENT 7:26PM<em>

_EIGHTBALL01_  
><em>From what I can tell, he hasn't looked at a woman "that way" in years. Decades, even. Ornery old bast - I mean, bachelors are the hardest catch. Did anyone tell her that?<em>  
><em>SENT 7:32PM<em>

_BLEVASSEUR_  
><em>I could, but that would just encourage her!<em>  
><em>SENT 7:30PM<em>

"What's the skinny?" A voice piped up from behind Sylvie. Daryl was lounging in the door of the trailer. "Nobody drunk or stupid yet?"

Sylvie lowered her tablet. "Even the helicopters agree that a roomful of them drunk would be a Very Bad Idea. Bree was just saying that Juno's still mooning after Blade. If he's aware, he's not showing it."

Dawn's ginger head peeped over Daryl's shoulder. "Hope Juno can get her act together for tomorrow. Aren't they doing a demo on the lake?"

"Yeah, so they said." Daryl nodded. "And a hoist relay in the morning. What do they do for a living? Hoist stuff. What do they do for fun? More of the same..."

"It's what they do." Sylvie shrugged. "Like stockdogs, that's what they live for." She looked back to the pitty group. "Canuck guy's still running back and forth." it was enough that even Maru was starting to notice, though he said nothing.

Dawn turned back inside, to the band members who were chilling around the trailer's dinette. Maeve was nursing Myfanwy, who seemed to be adjusting quite well to her new surroundings; Dawn was going to be sitting for the baby while her parents were performing. She found a seat on the couch section and curled up - it had been a long day. The radio was tuned to the aviation band, monitoring the chatter between the tower and aircraft coming and going. Suddenly the girl sat up as she heard at least one familiar voice break in. "Hey, that's Dusty!"

"A little earlier than he said he'd be." Daryl turned around. "Must've had a tail wind behind him."

"Heh, Dipper's gonna be happy now." Sylvie cackled. "Look, she's got his scent already."

"I thought she couldn't smell worth a damn."

"For MOST things. But HIM she can pick up at point-zero-zero-umptywhatthef***ever parts per million at a hundred miles. Even in a screaming gale."

"Poor bastard."

"Yeah, scary enough when she's bounding up to one of US. But she's getting better, gotta admit."

Heathyr, who was resting at the other end of the couch, looked up from her book and smirked. "Maybe we can distract her with the baby. She's been dying to see."

"It'll have to be through the doorframe, with US on the other side." Maeve declared firmly. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"No issue with that." Daryl shrugged. "There he comes."

"And there she goes." Sylvie made sure she was well out of the way when the air tanker passed. Dipper's teamates were quick on her proverbial heels, including the air boss, who seemed to appreciate any excuse to leave the lodge's environs.


End file.
